


No Prints, No Witnesses

by Dusty_Forgotten (DustyForgotten)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 1940s, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Mob, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-20 20:10:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11928342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DustyForgotten/pseuds/Dusty_Forgotten





	No Prints, No Witnesses

“Will you put that away? I’m busy.” Dean chastises, pushing a hand against Sam’s camera lens.

Sam rolled his eyes, and popped on the lens cap. “You wouldn’t be if you let me drive.”

“Yeah, but then  _ you’d _ be busy, and wouldn’t get the picture anyway.”

“I’m seventeen, you know. I can drive.”

“Yeah?” he taunted, glancing that way. “Show me the license.”

“I’d pass the test!” he defended, crossing his arms. Still a kid. “If you let me take it...”

“You’re never driving my baby, Sammy.”

Sam adjusted his seatbelt and let the subject drop. He didn’t want his brother turning on the radio, though, so he had to keep talking. “Where are we going?”

“Not far. Another ten, fifteen minutes.”

“I asked where, not how far.”

Dean shifted his grip on the steering wheel; Sam didn’t look at him. “Not far.”

“Is it a job for dad?”

“ _ No _ , it’s not a job for dad.” Dean defended harshly. “A friend of mine owes me some money, is all.”

“And you’re driving a half hour for some money a friend owes you?”

Dean kept his eyes on the road, just so Sammy couldn’t pin him under his own gaze. Kid’s too smart. “It’s no big deal.”

“Yeah, not unless you get caught.”

“I’m not gonna get caught.” the elder groaned, giving up the lie. “No prints, no witnesses, remember?”

“I couldn’t forget that if I wanted to.”

Dean’s gazed connected with his brother’s, warningly, and lingered too long. Sam watched the road, in the hope his brother would take the hint.

The minutes passed in silence. “I know what I’m doing, okay?” Dean assured.

“Sure.” Sam conceded. He didn’t want to get into this argument again. Quiet had them by the vocal cords.

Dean pulled off the highway, taking this sidestreet to that, and parked on a dirt driveway in view of a ramshackle ranch house. Sam picked up a book from the floor, and opened it to the bookmark. “Don’t die.”

“That’s encouraging.” his brother retorted, stepping out and opening the trunk- then the hidden compartment under it.

Sam wasn’t paying attention- doing a rather good job at it, too- but it was impossible to tune out gunshots. Believe him, he’d tried. Sure, they were in backwoods Kentucky, and Sam was probably the only one who find it worrying (though not unusual), but he could have had the courtesy to use a silencer.

Dean hopped in the driver’s seat, and peeled out. Unlike him, Sam had the courtesy not to bring it up.

 

Dad wasn’t home. That was no surprise; John Winchester was never home. Sam was hesitant to say they even cohabitated. Neither of the boys wanted to speculate on where he was. They didn’t notice.

Dean’s room was covered in weaponry and classic rock posters; Sam’s was a cozy brown, empty but for bookshelves. They shared a wall, devoid of wall-mounts (books nor knives), where they tapped morse code to each other when they were younger and John actually was around. They could just speak through the vent at the top of the wall, of course, but it didn’t have the same appeal. The secrecy of their shared drywall lost some appeal to Sam when his brother hit puberty and started bringing home the girlfriend-of-the-week. Their parent was never home, so why not?

On the plus side, Sam was fairly confident he could sleep through armageddon now. Well, except guns cocking. You couldn’t really blame him, though, second son of a mobster kingpin.

Sam Winchester bolted back brace-straight in bed, and fumbled the Glock from his bedside drawer. His door was locked, his window closed, and barring an intruder that closed doors behind him, the only point of origin he would have heard it that clearly was Dean’s room.

_ It’s nothing, _ Sam told himself as he poised to break down his brother’s door,  _ you’re overreacting. _

He still went through with it.

The only uninvited person in Dean’s room was Sam, and they were both aiming guns at each other. They lowered immediately, because you don’t point guns at family- even if Dean’s was only partially constructed. It was reflex.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” he grumbled, but Sam spent so much time around his brother, he knew when he was trying to sound more annoyed than he was.

“Sorry, I...” Sam started, before he realized who he was talking to. “What are you doing up? It’s like, two in the morning.”

“Couldn’t sleep. Guessin’ the same with you?” he responded, reassembling his .45 from the parts laid neatly on his desk.

“No, I heard...” He motioned flippantly to Dean’s current task, leaning against the desk himself. He was up now.

“Gotcha. Sorry, Sammy.”

He shrugged in response, watching Dean put the gun together. He wasn’t nearly that fast with his yet, still got confused on which spring was which. Sam set his on the desktop and crossed his arms. “Dean, come on. Something’s up.”

“What, you wanna share tragic backstories? It’d be pretty boring, since we got the same one.”

“So, guilt, then.”

Dean glanced up, green-eyed and defensive. “I don’t feel guilty.”

“Oh, yeah, because you barely feel anything, right?”

“Right.”

Sam sighed, and tried to get his speech skills together. He was interrupted by a dull thump, outside. Close. They both moved on reflex.

Dean switched off the desk lamp and popped a loaded magazine into his gun while Sam flushed himself to the wall.

He didn’t spend much time in his brother’s room, just dropping off school papers and dusting, because Dean never would, and anything in his room would just come through the vent to Sam’s. It was a pretty normal place, with pin-up posters and clothes on the floor, and some in a suitcase that never strayed far from the doorjamb. It was a lot different in the dark.

The walls were covered in transparent, phosphorescent paint: symbols and sigils, some he recognized, most he didn’t. Sam tried to draw meanings and origins from the use of geometry, but his attention was taken by the ceiling. Above them was a decagon, elaborate borders and a detailed scorpion in the centre. Sam was speechless. The only thing he’d seen his brother draw was a stick figure.

“It’s dad.” Dean informed, stuffing the gun in the back of his pants as he flipped the light on.

Sam was blinded, but not perturbed. “Dean, what’s all over-”

“You should get back to your room.”

Sam wanted to argue, but John would be in any second, and there was no arguing with John Winchester. They’d have plenty of time to themselves later, anyway.

Sam slunk back to his den, put his Glock on the dresser, turned off all the lights, and drained his water glass before pressing it between his ear and their conjoined wall.

John came in loudly, and spoke first. “Get your brother, we’ve got work to do.”

“Sam was up late studying, he’s got a test tomorrow...”

“Bullshit. I saw the shadows.” 

Sam thought of throwing his clothes on, but he didn’t want the floor to squeak and give him away.

“Have it your way. Only takes one to dig a grave.”

John’s footsteps retreated, and Sam tensed as they passed his own door- but they didn’t stop. He was startled by a double-tap, right to his ear, and dropped the glass, but thank God, it didn’t shatter.

Sam knew not to thank him.

 

Dean got back late, and slept late; John didn’t come back at all.


End file.
